


mutually assured survival

by amarielah



Series: Titanstuck [1]
Category: Homestuck, Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Addiction, Gen, Gore, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Setting: Shingeki no Kyojin, references to child slavery, so it doesn't start off very happy, swearing galore, this is basically Mikasa's backstory with a Gamzee twist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-20 21:43:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amarielah/pseuds/amarielah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gamzee and Karkat’s first meeting is about as serendipitous as they come. In that Karkat saves Gamzee from a group of thugs, and Gamzee manages not to kill him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	mutually assured survival

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write this AU ever since I got to the Hivebent part of Homestuck. It takes the basic setting of SnK but applies it to Alternia, mixing up the medieval human setting with Alternian culture (and of course Trolls). Some people may be a bit skeptical about which of the troll kids I've chosen to "replace" some of the SnK characters with, but I made those decisions based on several factors. Sometimes the matchups are based on personality, and sometimes they're based on a character's role within the plot and relationship dynamics. My hope is that I maybe end up convincing any skeptics that these choices were sound. Or at least not completely ridiculous.

It was clear at first that the motherfuckers were just planning to up and kill you. One of them is twice your size and muscled like a hoofbeast, and he starts on you the second he catches sight of your pathetic self. But even a fuckup like you has enough survival instinct to try and dodge the sickle when it comes for you. The fear is muted behind a tint of acid green, but it’s enough to get you moving. You manage to avoid a fatal blow, even though the sickle still gets you good on the shoulder. Purple splatters every-which-way, and it hurts in a distant kinda way. You’d eaten a fresh pie right before these motherfuckers decided to get their stealin’ on, and the whole point of that shit is to keep the pain away.

 

You’re all up and ready to dodge another attack, but the giant adult is looking at your blood like it’s a motherfucking miracle.

 

“Well fuck _me_ ,” he says, a grin spreading across his ugly face. “Boss – this kid’s a _purple blood._ ”

 

“Boss” walks forward to get a look, his blue eyes glittering when he confirms his flunky’s findings. “I’ll be damned if that ain’t just the prettiest color I’ve ever seen in my life,” he says.

 

They tie you up and gag you (not like you were planning to say shit, or like anyone would hear you scream), and load you into their four-wheel hoofbeast-pulled device. The ride is bumpy and jostles your injured shoulder, but the sopor keeps everything nice and dull. You drift in and out of what might be sleep, and only come to when you’re back indoors. It smells like stale sweat and cooking flesh.

 

“Now this is what I call a stroke of luck,” says the flunkie, cleaning his sickle with a rag. “This kid is probably the last purple blood on the entire fucking planet.”

 

“No kidding,” says the boss. He’s by the combustion grate, tending to a skewered hopbeast cooking over the flames. “It’s a good thing we didn’t kill him. We’re gonna make a fortune selling him to those perverts in Wall Meenah.”

 

The flunky puts down his sickle and walks up to you, pushing you over with his foot. He looks down at your face with a leer. “He’s even a looker once you wipe that greasepaint away. I mean, I’m not into wrigglers, but that’ll make the price even steeper.”

 

It’s funny, but that’s when you finally start to feel anything like anger bubbling up from your bile sack. They had _no fucking right_ to take your face away – to up and turn you into a blasphemous motherfucker. NO MOTHERFUCKING RIGHT.

 

But the anger’s gone after just a few seconds, and you bloodpusher don’t beat any faster for it.

 

There’s a knock on the door.

 

The flunkie frowns some and walks to the door, cracking it open open just enough to see who’s there. The voice that filters through sounds young and scared. Fragile.

 

“Excuse me, sir, but I need your help.”

 

“Don’t you know it’s dangerous for a wriggler like you to be out here all alone?” says the flunky, and it actually sounds like he means it. You’d honk at that if you weren’t gagged.

 

“I know!” says the wriggler. Through tears, most likely. “It’s just that my lusus is missing, and I didn’t know what else to do but look for him! Can you help me?”

 

The flunkie sighs. “That’s unfortunate, kid. It really is. But I’ve got my own problems to worry about.”

 

“Yeah.” There’s a subtle _shift_ in the wriggler’s tone. “You do.”

 

Then the flunky makes a strangled noise at the back of his throat and falls to his knees. You’re at an angle where you can see that his guts are spilling out of his abdomen, blood gushing wetly to the floor. _And ain’t that just a motherfucking waste_ , says a voice in the back of your head. All that pretty green paint just sloshing around without any artistry or grace.

 

The wriggler stands there with his knife covered in blood and some chunkier stuff, and it strikes you that he’s even smaller than your tiny motherfucking self. Your feet can’t even reach the pedals of your one-wheel device, so that’s saying something. He has a thick scarf wrapped around his neck and nubby little horns and, for all that he’s snarling, his teeth are almost laughably blunt. But there’s something in his eyes: something fierce and hot that makes your bloodpusher speed up in spite of the sopor.

 

It takes a second for the boss to react, but it’s a second too long. The little troll runs up to him as he’s reaching for his sickle and stabs him right in throat. But he doesn’t stop when the adult slumps to the ground, taking gargling breaths through lungs filling up with pretty blue paint. He stabs him again and again and again: in the chest, the stomach, and who knows where the fuck else. And all the time he’s screaming.

 

“YOU’RE A FUCKING MONSTER! A WASTE OF OXYGEN! THIS IS WHAT YOU FUCKING DESERVE!”

 

It’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

 

He stops after a while, and you’re almost sad it’s over. But then he’s walking up to you all spattered in blue and green and cutting you free, and you can’t really find it in yourself to be all that disappointed.

 

“Are you alright?” he asks, then shakes his head. “Wow. That was a stupid fucking question. Your shoulder’s all torn up and you were kidnapped by a couple of monstrous nooksuckers. Of course you’re not fucking alright.”

 

You smile. “I’m actually pretty motherfuckin’ chill,” you say. ‘Cause sure, you could use a pie. But you’ve just witnessed a motherfucking _miracle_.

 

“Well you shouldn’t be!” he snaps, and stands, walking back to the door. He looks at you expectantly, but doesn’t say anything else.

 

You sit there for a while, gathering up the strength to go and join him – ‘cause you’re pretty sure that’s what he wants you to do. But there’s something about what he said before; something that’s getting stuck in your thinkpan and buzzing like a bloodbug. But it’s difficult to think about much of anything with the miracle that is this nubby-horned motherfucker making you giddy. You’re as high on that as the sopor, you think.

 

But it sticks around, and eventually the words

 

– _a_ _ **couple**_ _–_

 

make an impression. And you finally get your remember on. But before you can up and tell your new friend about how there’d been three of those motherfuckers when they broke into your hive, he’s being flung across the room.

 

And then the second flunky is hoisting him up by the scruff of his neck and punching him square in the face, and there’s an audible _crack_ as his nose is broken. The knife has dropped from his hands, and it strikes you again how _little_ he is.

 

If you don’t do something, your new friend is gonna die.

 

But there’s a real fear in you now, so sharp that it’s breaking through the sopor haze, and you just stare as the flunky punches him in the stomach – stare like a musclebeast about to be slaughtered.

 

He’s looking right at you, though, with impossible, candy-red blood running down his chin. He’s looking at you, and you know he’s expecting you to do something. To get your pathetic self up off the ground and help him like he’d helped you.

 

And you’re afraid, because you don’t want to die and you don’t want your friend to die and there’s this _rage_ welling up inside you, all hot and sweet and _perfect._ Your motherfucking miracle rage that burns you up inside and makes you forget how much it hurts to be alone. Until it leaves you, just like everything leaves you, and you’re still alone. Then you’re left with nothing but a hole in the universe that sucks all the miracles away.

 

You’re more afraid of that than the dying.

 

But he’s still looking at you expectantly as the flunky gets out his sword, and his eyes are _burning._

 

So you let the rage consume you, let it drown out the fear in a way the sopor never quite could, and you grab the sickle the other flunky had left behind. In a flash you’re behind the adult, using the momentum of your dash to jam the sickle into the flesh of his back. Blood the color of mold spills out from his torn, lukewarm flesh, and you use his confusion to topple him over. The little troll manages to roll away in time to avoid being caught underneath the adult’s muscular body.

 

You pull the sickle out and leap onto his back, using your good arm to slice through the meat of his neck. You’re strong, but his neck is all kinds of thick, so it takes a few tries before his head goes rolling.

 

Your eyes are drawn back to your new best bro, who’s watching you with a kind of horrified respect. And this time you really take a moment to look at that blood of his, which is just so motherfucking pretty you can barely breath. You think about the things you could paint with green and blue and bright candy red, about how you could make your new friend bleed all nice and quick. No pain for your bro: just one sweep of the knife and he’d sleep tight.

 

He moves closer and you start to shake, something deep inside of your thinkpan telling you to do it and _do it now._ But there’s something else, as well, and it’s reminding you how much it sucks to be alone. How anything you up and paint will be beautiful but so fucking silent, and every time you look at it you’ll think back on that friend you could’ve had if you’d just. Calmed the fuck down.

 

He paps you.

 

Your thinkpan freezes.

 

He paps you again, more firmly this time. And then a bunch more times, making hushed shooshing noises. And soon you’re collapsing into his arms, shaking and crying. Crying like you haven’t cried in sweeps and sweeps.

 

“Karkat,” says a somber voice from the doorway, and you recognize it immediately. It’s the motherfucker who came to visit you sometimes. More often than your actual lusus, most likely. He taught you how to read and even brought you books, like the ones where you learned about the Mirthful Messiahs.

 

You’d greet him, but you can’t seem to make any noise but sobs come outta your mouth.

 

He sighs. “Come outside, you two.”

 

Your new best bro – Karkat – pushes you back all gentle-like, giving you a couple more paps for good measure, and manages to get to his feet. He holds out a hand for you that’s shaking and covered in multicolored blood, and you accept it like the miracle it motherfucking is.

 

It’s snowing outside; it feels like your tears are starting to freeze on your face.

 

“I told you to wait for me to get help,” says the adult. You’re a little embarrassed that you can’t up and remember his motherfucking name, ‘cause you’re sure he’s told you.

 

Karkat looks up at him defiantly. “Yes, and it was a fucking stupid thing to tell me. They might’ve moved on while I stood around with my head up my nook like an asshole, and Gamzee would’ve been auctioned off to the highest bidder.” His voice sounds a little funny coming through his broken nose.

 

The adult heaves a long-suffering sigh. “It won’t always work out, you know. Someday, these sorts of shenanigans are going to get you and the people you pity in a lot of trouble.”

 

“Probably,” says Karkat. “It’s inevitable that I’m going to fuck up eventually, but I’m pretty sure it’ll happen no matter what I do.” You decide you don’t like it when Karkat talks about himself like that, but you still can’t find it in yourself to say a motherfucking word. At least you’re not crying anymore.

 

The adult sighs again and says, “I’ll take Gamzee back to his hive.”

 

Your bloodpusher sinks when you think of being all alone again, with your lusus MIA and no friends and living in the middle of motherfucking nowhere. Maybe Karkat will come to visit you when the adult does, since you figure that’s what he was going to do before those motherfuckers up and absconded with your sorry ass. But somehow that doesn’t seem like enough anymore. You want to see your new bro whenever you motherfucking can; you want to get to know him and all his miraculous little details.

 

You shiver and ache all over and desperately want a pie. But even the thought of being able to eat one at your hive doesn’t make you feel much better.

 

“No,” says Karkat.

 

“Excuse me,” says the adult.

 

“I said _no_ , Doc.” Karkat crosses his arms. “Gamzee’s coming home with me.”

 

You almost start crying again.

 

Doc blinks. “But...your lusus...”

 

“Will learn to fucking _deal with it._ ” Karkat unwraps his blood-stained scarf and walks over to you, wrapping it haphazardly around your neck. It’s a little sticky, but it helps you to keep from shivering. “What do you say, Gamzee?”

 

It takes a motherfucking effort, but you manage to say, “I don’t know why you’re doing this for me, bro. We’ve only just motherfuckin' met.” The words are a little muffled by the scarf.

 

Karkat flushes, and it’s just about the cutest thing you’ve ever motherfucking seen. “You ever hear of serendipity?” he asks.

 

“Is that like a miracle?” You feel kinda stupid, having to ask. You bet Karkat’s read a lot more than you ever have. You bet he knows about all kinds of things you ain’t never heard of.

 

“Actually, it kind of is,” he says.

 

You swallow ‘cause there’s a lump in your throat. You want to tell him how close you’d come to ending him – how you’d almost used his blood to make a pretty picture on the wall of your hive. But you _can’t._ Because you’re _so motherfucking tired_ of being alone. “I’m in,” you say. “If you’re all up and willing to put up with a motherfucker like me.”

 

Karkat’s expression isn’t quite a smile, but it’s close enough. He takes you by the hand. “Let’s go home then,” he says.

 

Your pan throbs and your shoulder stings and you’re still too cold, but it’s the first time in a long time you can remember being happy.

 

You let him lead you by the hand, marveling at a world full of miracles.


End file.
